Stories of Mikistory

The Door Reads "Mystery Inc."  All but one name has been scratched off the glass. Norville Rogers awoke in his desk around noon.  He had passed out in his desk chair again.  Its not like he had anywhere else to go, as he had been evicted from his apartment.  So the choices are sleep in the VW van outside, or be warm in his office. He choked down some asprin and took a long look in the mirror.  He almost didn't recognize himself anymore.  A five o'clock shadow, and his disheveled hair...not been cut in a while, had become rather shaggy. Norville heard his dog walking towards him.  He shut his eyes tight..."Please not today" he thought. Still, his dog Scooby looked at him, tilted his head, Norville could hear the voice plain as day in his head "Rello"  He must be going insane. "Come on Scooby, lets get you some breakfast."  Went to the kitchen and poured the dog some treats in to a bowl, as he had ran out of dog food.  The rest of the

He awoke to sounds of men screaming all around him.  "Am I dead...is this...hell?"  He tried to stand, but felt pinned to the ground.  Staring down at his feet he noticed the spear that was driven straight through his gut and deep into the ground.  Last he remembered was  that he had been knocked from his horse, right onto his back. "KILL ME, PLEASE!" he heard from his compatriots and enemies alike who were writhing in pain to wounds that had not yet claimed their lives.  He knew by the warm flow from his mid section that if he were not to act soon, would be among the dead. He tried to move, but every stretch he could feel his wound tear more and more.  He grasped the spear in one hand breathed deep and then with his other.  He tried to break the weapon, but could not get any leverage.   He needed something to break his imprisonment.  When he laid his head back on the ground and turned to the left, he saw his friend...well, half of him anyways.  His axe was in arm

I'm beginning to believe that God has installed some sort of Mutant Healing Factor in my DNA, as if you've read in the past (thank you), then you know I've been thrown and kicked by horses and cows, hit by a car, and survived an unsurvivable car crash among other things.   Two such injuries happened during my employ at the Florence location of Spencer Gifts. I first started working there in February of 1998.  We had a jewelry case of the finest gold and silver in all the lands.  The kind that came in on a UPS drop ship.   It was kept locked up in a glass case to be displayed for all of Waterloo to come and be in awe of. One day, one of the four fluorescent bulbs went out.  I went to turn the breakers to the case off to take out and replace the bulb.  The bulbs face inward towards the jewelry to show off the karats.  So to change the bulbs, you have to lean into the case.  I unscrewed the metal encasement that housed the sockets for the bulbs.  No problems.  Then I had

Its twenty years ago.  I'm thirteen years old.  I've just started listening to rock the year prior.  A friend of mine gives me a CD and tells me to "listen to this, it will change your life."  That CD was Ten by Pearl Jam. She was more right than she'll ever know.  From the first listen, I was hooked.  Every time a video came on, I was glued to the screen, memorizing the words and sounds of every song.  Then came the import singles.  They actually had songs that weren't on the album.  So I of course had to have all of them.  Since they were imports, they cost just as much as the regular whole album.  The first was Jeremy, which had the single Yellow Ledbetter.  I had no clue what he was saying, but the tone and the song was just pure awesome.  (I did later figure it out). For their next album VS, I was there day one, to get it.  Same as Vitalogy and No Code and Yield. No Code really spoke to me.  I always felt I could write a screen play around that albu

While recounting a story on another bloggers, well...blog, I talked about my dad being a Professional Bull Rider.  Which made me think.  I'll never be as tough as he is.  Its OK for me to admit.  The man rode bulls for chrissakes. Dad has always been tough.  As long as I've known him, which has been since birth, he's been out manning me.   He hunts.  Cleans his own kills.  He rode bulls.  In Madison Square Garden.  He's told off a New York Times reporter.  He's been in fights.  At his age, he can probably out ride me on a mechanical bull.  He seems like a good foot shorter than I am, but still scares me to death. He's fallen off a roof, only to pop a joint back into socket and go right back to work.  He almost lost an eye en route to vacation, only to travel on until we drove all the way TO TEXAS.  He's drunkenly stared down an alligator. The only thing that makes him back down. My mother.

It dawned on me this morning, when I was waiting for my turn to go through the intersection, waiting on the lead car to turn left, no one gives a shit about anyone else anymore.  How did I come to this?  This particular intersection is almost impossible to turn left out of.  Some people will wait 10-15 minutes to turn left.  Turning right is no problem at all.  But every morning the same people are there trying to turn left, not giving a fuck all about the people who are turning right, and could do so with ease.  They know that they're going to have to wait.  They know they're going to cause other people to wait.  To be late to their jobs.  They know that they could take a route that won't back up traffic.  But they never do.  Why?  Because they don't give a fuck about you, me or anyone else.  Only what they want to do. They're the same people who pull into the "NO PARKING - FIRE ZONE", right in front of the god damned entrance door.  "Its ok"

I got my first cell phone when I was 16.  Although, it was a bag phone that was left in the car from a previous owner.  He never really deactivated it, so I was able to use it for a little while. I didn't get an official one for another 6 years.  Didn't see the point.  But I was living in Nashville at the time, and figured it may be a little easier to get in contact with me.  It was a Cricket phone.  Which meant, the coverage was very local.  Which was all I needed it for. When I moved back from Nashville, my parents put me on their family plan, as it was cheaper to pay an extra 10 dollars a month, then use up their minutes calling me or whatever.  I stayed on that plan until the beginning of January, as it was free, and I didn't need a new phone. Kell and I got married, and my phone was starting to get rough.  As in the front didn't display anything anymore, and some of the keys stopped working.  Being a grown man, and married with a shitty phone, I decided it was t

Why is it every time that I want to be charitable, some organization needs to give me something in return.  Its like the person that can't have the last word. Its always something that should give you incentive to donate, whether it be your time, money or unwanted goods. With people asking money for wounded veterans, its some pin for you to wear on your shirt. The Salvation Army wants to give me receipts for donating things. United Way wants to give me discount cards or something. Its nice that they want to do something in return, but I don't find it necessary.  Why can't people just know in their heart of hearts that they did something good with out having to show for it, or get some type of kickback? Like the ASPCA ads.  For donating, they give you a shirt or visor or something that you'll most likely end up donating to the Salvation Army. THEN, if you tell them you don't want it, then you're the asshole for not showing off your pin or whatever. Like t